but as I stand up at last, I still feel dazed. I walk along in a slight blur, hardly able to believe
I'm here. I'm alive. I honestly never thought I'd make it back on the ground.
'Emma!' I hear someone calling as I come out of Arrivals, but I don't look up. There are loads
of Emmas in this world.
'Emma! Over here!'
I raise my head in disbelief. Is that…
No. It can't be, it can't-
It's Connor.
He looks heart-breakingly handsome. His skin has that Scandinavian tan, and his eyes are
bluer than ever, and he's running towards me. This makes no sense. What's he doing here? As
we reach each other he grabs me and pulls me tight to his chest.
'Thank God,' he says huskily. 'Thank God. Are you OK?'
'Connor, what— what are you doing here?'
'I phoned the airline to ask what time you'd be landing, and they told me the plane had hit
terrible turbulence. I just had to come to the airport.' He gazes down at me. 'Emma, I watched
your plane land. They sent an ambulance straight out to it. Then you didn't appear. I thought
…' He swallows hard. 'I don't know exactly what I thought.'
'I'm fine. I was just… trying to get myself together. Oh God, Connor, it was terrifying.' My
voice is suddenly all shaky, which is ridiculous, because I'm perfectly safe now. 'At one point
I honestly thought I was going to die.'
'When you didn't come through the barrier…' Connor breaks off and stares at me silently for
a few seconds. 'I think I realized for the first time quite how deeply I feel about you.'
'Really?' I falter.
My heart's thumping. I think I might fall over at any moment.
'Emma, I think we should…'
Get married? My heart jumps in fear. Oh my God. He's going to ask me to marry him, right
here in the airport. What am I going to say? I'm not ready to get married. But if I say no he'll
stalk off in a huff. Shit. OK. What I'll say is, Gosh, Connor, I need a little time to…
'… move in together,' he finishes.
I am such a deluded moron. Obviously he wasn't going to ask me to marry him.
'What do you think?' he strokes my hair gently.
'Erm…' I rub my dry face, playing for time, unable to think straight. Move in with Connor. It
kind of makes sense. Is there a reason why not? I feel all confused. Something's tugging at my
brain; trying to send me a message…
And into my head slide some of the things I said on the plane. Something about never having
been properly in love. Something about Connor not really understanding me.
But then… that was just drivel, wasn't it? I mean, I thought I was about to die, for God's sake.
I wasn't exactly at my most lucid.
'Connor, what about your big meeting?' I say, suddenly recalling.
'I cancelled it.'
'You cancelled it?' I stare at him. 'For me?'
I feel really wobbly now. My legs are barely holding me up. I don't know if it's the aftermath
of the plane journey or love.
Oh God, just look at him. He's tall and he's handsome, and he cancelled a big meeting, and he
came to rescue me.
It's love. It has to be love.
'I'd love to move in with you, Connor,' I whisper, and to my utter astonishment, burst into
tears.
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
I'm here. I'm alive. I honestly never thought I'd make it back on the ground.
'Emma!' I hear someone calling as I come out of Arrivals, but I don't look up. There are loads
of Emmas in this world.
'Emma! Over here!'
I raise my head in disbelief. Is that…
No. It can't be, it can't-
It's Connor.
He looks heart-breakingly handsome. His skin has that Scandinavian tan, and his eyes are
bluer than ever, and he's running towards me. This makes no sense. What's he doing here? As
we reach each other he grabs me and pulls me tight to his chest.
'Thank God,' he says huskily. 'Thank God. Are you OK?'
'Connor, what— what are you doing here?'
'I phoned the airline to ask what time you'd be landing, and they told me the plane had hit
terrible turbulence. I just had to come to the airport.' He gazes down at me. 'Emma, I watched
your plane land. They sent an ambulance straight out to it. Then you didn't appear. I thought
…' He swallows hard. 'I don't know exactly what I thought.'
'I'm fine. I was just… trying to get myself together. Oh God, Connor, it was terrifying.' My
voice is suddenly all shaky, which is ridiculous, because I'm perfectly safe now. 'At one point
I honestly thought I was going to die.'
'When you didn't come through the barrier…' Connor breaks off and stares at me silently for
a few seconds. 'I think I realized for the first time quite how deeply I feel about you.'
'Really?' I falter.
My heart's thumping. I think I might fall over at any moment.
'Emma, I think we should…'
Get married? My heart jumps in fear. Oh my God. He's going to ask me to marry him, right
here in the airport. What am I going to say? I'm not ready to get married. But if I say no he'll
stalk off in a huff. Shit. OK. What I'll say is, Gosh, Connor, I need a little time to…
'… move in together,' he finishes.
I am such a deluded moron. Obviously he wasn't going to ask me to marry him.
'What do you think?' he strokes my hair gently.
'Erm…' I rub my dry face, playing for time, unable to think straight. Move in with Connor. It
kind of makes sense. Is there a reason why not? I feel all confused. Something's tugging at my
brain; trying to send me a message…
And into my head slide some of the things I said on the plane. Something about never having
been properly in love. Something about Connor not really understanding me.
But then… that was just drivel, wasn't it? I mean, I thought I was about to die, for God's sake.
I wasn't exactly at my most lucid.
'Connor, what about your big meeting?' I say, suddenly recalling.
'I cancelled it.'
'You cancelled it?' I stare at him. 'For me?'
I feel really wobbly now. My legs are barely holding me up. I don't know if it's the aftermath
of the plane journey or love.
Oh God, just look at him. He's tall and he's handsome, and he cancelled a big meeting, and he
came to rescue me.
It's love. It has to be love.
'I'd love to move in with you, Connor,' I whisper, and to my utter astonishment, burst into
tears.
THREE
I wake up the next morning with sunlight dazzling my eyelids and a delicious smell of coffee
in the air.
'Morning!' comes Connor's voice from far above.
'Morning,' I mumble, without opening my eyes.
'D'you want some coffee?'
'Yes please.'
I turn over and bury my throbbing head in the pillow, trying to sink into sleep again for a
couple of minutes. Which normally I would find very easy. But today, something's niggling at
me. Have I forgotten something?
As I half listen to Connor clattering around in the kitchen, and the tinny background sound of
the telly, my mind gropes blearily around for clues. It's Saturday morning. I'm in Connor's bed.
We went out for supper — oh God, that awful plane ride… he came to the airport, and he said
…
We're moving in together!
I sit up, just as Connor comes in with two mugs and a cafetiere. He's dressed in a white waffle
robe and looks completely gorgeous. I feel a prickle of pride, and reach over to give him a
kiss.
'Hi,' he says, laughing. 'Careful.' He hands me my coffee. 'How are you feeling?'
'All right.' I push my hair back off my face. 'A bit groggy.'
'I'm not surprised.' Connor raises his eyebrows. 'Quite a day yesterday.'
'Absolutely.' I nod, and take a sip of coffee. 'So. We're… going to live together!'
'If you're still on for it?'
'Of course! Of course I am!' I smile brightly.
And it's true. I am.
I feel as though overnight, I've turned into a grownup. I'm moving in with my boyfriend.
Finally my life is going the way it should!
'I'll have to give Andrew notice…' Connor gestures towards the wall, on the other side of
which is his flatmate's room.
'And I'll have to tell Lissy and Jemima.'
'And we'll have to find the right place. And you'll have to promise to keep it tidy.' He gives
me a teasing grin.
'I like that!' I feign outrage. 'You're the one with fifty million CDs.'
'That's different!'
'How is it different, may I ask?' I plant my hand on my hip, like someone in a sitcom, and
Connor laughs.
There's a pause, as though we've both run out of steam, and we take a sip of coffee.
'So anyway,' says Connor after a while, 'I should get going.' Connor is attending a course on
computers this weekend. 'I'm sorry I'll miss your parents,' he adds.
And he really is. I mean, as if he wasn't already the perfect boyfriend, he actually enjoys
visiting my parents.
'That's OK,' I say benevolently. 'It doesn't matter.'
'Oh, and I forgot to tell you.' Connor gives me a mysterious grin. 'Guess what I've got tickets
for?'
'Ooh!' I say excitedly. 'Um…'
I'm about to say 'Paris!'
'The jazz festival!' Connor beams. 'The Dennisson Quartet! It's their last concert of the year.
Remember we heard them at Ronnie Scott's?'
For a moment I can't quite speak.
'Wow!' I manage at last. 'The… Dennisson Quartet! I do remember.'
They played clarinets. On and on and on, for about two hours, without even taking a breath.
'I knew you'd be pleased.' Connor touches my arm affectionately, and I give him a feeble
smile.
'Oh, I am!'
The thing is, I probably will get to like jazz one day. In fact, I'm positive I will.
I watch fondly as he gets dressed, flosses his teeth and picks up his briefcase.
'You wore my present,' he says with a pleased smile, glancing at my discarded underwear on
the floor.
'I… often wear them,' I say, crossing my fingers behind my back. 'They're so gorgeous!'
'Have a lovely day with your family.' Connor comes over to the bed to kiss me, and then
hesitates. 'Emma?'
'Yes?'
He sits down on the bed and gazes seriously at me. Gosh, his eyes are so blue.
'There's something I wanted to say.' He bites his lip. 'You know we always speak frankly to
each other about our relationship.'
'Er… yes,' I say, feeling a little apprehensive.
'This is just an idea. You may not like it. I mean… it's completely up to you.'
I gaze at Connor in puzzlement. His face is growing pink, and he looks really embarrassed.
Oh my God. Is he going to start getting kinky? Does he want me to dress up in outfits and
stuff?
I wouldn't mind being a nurse, actually. Or Catwoman from Batman. That would be cool. I
could get some shiny boots…
'I was thinking that… perhaps… we could…' He stops awkwardly.
'Yes?' I put a supportive hand on his arm.
'We could…' He stops again.
'Yes?'
There's another silence. I almost can't breathe. What does he want us to do? What?
'We could start calling each other "darling",' he says in an embarrassed rush.
'What?' I say blankly.
'It's just that…' Connor flushes pinker. 'We're going to be living together. It's quite a
commitment. And I noticed recently, we never seem to use any… terms of endearment.'
I stare at him, feeling caught out.
'Don't we?'
'No.'
'Oh.' I take a sip of coffee. Now I think about it, he's right. We don't. Why don't we?
'So what do you think? Only if you want to.'
'Absolutely!' I say quickly. 'I mean, you're right. Of course we should.' I clear my throat.
'Darling!'
'Thanks, darling,' he says, with a loving smile, and I smile back, trying to ignore the tiny
protests inside my head.
This doesn't feel right.
I don't feel like a darling.
Darling is a married person with pearls and a four-wheel-drive.
'Emma?' Connor's staring at me. 'Is something wrong?'
'I'm not sure!' I give a self-conscious laugh. 'I just don't know if I feel like a "darling". But…
you know. It may grow on me.'
'Really? Well, we can use something else. What about "dear"?'
Dear? Is he serious?
'No,' I say quickly. 'I think "darling" is better.'
'Or "sweetheart"… "honey"… "angel"
'Maybe. Look, can we just leave it?'
Connor's face falls, and I feel bad. Come on. I can call my boyfriend 'darling', for God's sake.
This is what growing up's all about. I'm just going to have to get used to it.
'Connor, I'm sorry,' I say. 'I don't know what's wrong with me. Maybe I'm still a bit tense after
that flight.' I take his hand. 'Darling.'
'That's all right, darling.' He smiles back at me, his sunny expression restored, and gives me a
kiss. 'See you later.'
You see. Easy.
Oh God.
Anyway. It doesn't matter. I expect all couples have this kind of awkward-ish moment. It's
probably perfectly normal.
It takes me about half an hour to get from Connor's place in Maida Vale to Islington, which is
where I live, and as I open the door I find Lissy on the sofa. She's surrounded by papers and
has a frown of concentration on her face. She works so hard, Lissy. She really overdoes it
sometimes.
'What are you working on?' I say sympathetically. 'Is it that fraud case?'
'No, it's this article,' says Lissy abstractly, and lifts up a glossy magazine. 'It says since the
days of Cleopatra, the proportions of beauty have been the same, and there's a way to work
out how beautiful you are, scientifically. You do all these measurements…'
'Oh right!' I say interestedly. 'So what are you?'
'I'm just working it out.' She frowns at the page again. 'That makes 53… subtract 20…
makes… Oh my God!' She stares at the page in dismay. 'I only got 33!'
'Out of what?'
'A hundred! 33 out of a hundred!'
'Oh Lissy. That's crap.'
'I know,' says Lissy seriously. 'I'm ugly. I knew it. You know, all my life I've kind of secretly
known, but-'
'No!' I say, trying not to laugh. 'I meant the magazine's crap! You can't measure beauty with
some stupid index. Just look at you!' I gesture at Lissy, who has the biggest grey eyes in the
world, and gorgeous clear pale skin and is frankly stunning, even if her last haircut was a bit
severe. 'I mean, who are you going to believe? The mirror or a stupid mindless magazine
article?'
'A stupid mindless magazine article,' says Lissy, as though it's perfectly obvious.
I know she's half joking. But ever since her boyfriend Simon chucked her, Lissy's had really
low self-esteem. I'm actually a bit worried about her.
'Is that the golden proportion of beauty?' says our other flatmate Jemima, tapping into the
room in her kitten heels. She's wearing pale pink jeans and a tight white top and as usual, she
looks perfectly tanned and groomed. In theory, Jemima has a job, working in a sculpture
gallery. But all she ever seems to do is have bits of her waxed and plucked and massaged, and
go on dates with city bankers, whose salary she always checks out before she says yes.
I do get on with Jemima. Kind of. It's just that she tends to begin all her sentences 'If you want
a rock on your finger,' and 'If you want an SW3 address,' and 'If you want to be known as a
seriously good dinner-party hostess.'
I mean, I wouldn't mind being known as a seriously good dinner-party hostess. You know. It's
just not exactly highest on my list of priorities right now.
Plus, Jemima's idea of being a seriously good dinner-party hostess is inviting lots of rich
friends over, decorating the whole flat with twiggy things, getting caterers to cook loads of
yummy food and telling everyone she made it herself, then sending her flatmates (me and
Lissy) out to the cinema for the night and looking affronted when they dare creep back in at
midnight and make themselves a hot chocolate.
'I did that quiz,' she says now, picking up her pink Louis Vuitton bag. Her dad bought it for
her as a present when she broke up with a guy after three dates. Like she was heartbroken.
Mind you, he had a yacht, so she probably was heart-broken.
'What did you get?' says Lissy.
'Eighty-nine.' She spritzes herself with perfume, tosses her long blond hair back and smiles at
herself in the mirror. 'So Emma, is it true you're moving in with Connor?' I gape at her.
'How did you know that?'
'Word on the street. Andrew called Rupes this morning about cricket, and he told him.'
'Are you moving in with Connor?' says Lissy incredulously. 'Why didn't you tell me?'
'I was about to, honestly. Isn't it great?'
'Bad move, Emma.' Jemima shakes her head. 'Very bad tactics.'
'Tactics?' says Lissy, rolling her eyes. 'Tactics? Jemima, they're having a relationship, not
playing chess!'
'A relationship is a game of chess,' retorts Jemima, brushing mascara onto her lashes.
'Mummy says you always have to look ahead. You have to plan strategically. If you make the
wrong move, you've had it.'
'That's rubbish!' says Lissy defiantly. 'A relationship is about like minds. It's about soulmates
finding each other.'
'Soulmates!' says Jemima dismissively, and looks at me. 'Just remember, Emma, if you want a
rock on your finger, don't move in with Connor.'
Her eyes give a swift, Pavlovian glance to the photograph on the mantelpiece of her meeting
Prince William at a charity polo match.
'Still holding out for Royalty?' says Lissy. 'How much younger is he than you, again,
Jemima?'
'Don't be stupid!' she snaps, colour tinging her cheeks. 'You're so immature sometimes, Lissy.'
'Anyway, I don't want a rock on my finger,' I retort.
Jemima raises her perfectly arched eyebrows as though to say, 'you poor, ignorant fool', and
picks up her bag.
'Oh,' she suddenly adds, her eyes narrowing. 'Has either of you borrowed my Joseph jumper?'
There's a tiny beat of silence.
'No,' I say innocently.
'I don't even know which one it is,' says Lissy, with a shrug.
I can't look at Lissy. I'm sure I saw her wearing it the other night.
Jemima's blue eyes are running over me and Lissy like some kind of radar scanners.
'Because I have very slender arms,' she says warningly, 'and I really don't want the sleeves
stretched. And don't think I won't notice, because I will. Ciao.'
The minute she's gone Lissy and I look at each other.
'Shit,' says Lissy. 'I think I left it at work. Oh well, I'll pick it up on Monday.' She shrugs and
goes back to reading the magazine.
OK. So the truth is, we do both occasionally borrow Jemima's clothes. Without asking. But in
our defence, she has so many, she hardly ever notices. Plus according to Lissy, it's a basic
human right that flatmates should be able to borrow each others' clothes. She says it's
practically part of the unwritten British constitution.
'And anyway,' adds Lissy, 'she owes it to me for writing her that letter to the council about all
her parking tickets. You know, she never even said thank you.' She looks up from an article
on Nicole Kidman. 'So what are you doing later on? D'you want to see a film?'
'I can't,' I say reluctantly. 'I've got my mum's birthday lunch.'
'Oh yes, of course.' She pulls a sympathetic face. 'Good luck. I hope it's OK.'
Lissy is the only person in the world who has any idea how I feel about visiting home. And
even she doesn't know it all.
in the air.
'Morning!' comes Connor's voice from far above.
'Morning,' I mumble, without opening my eyes.
'D'you want some coffee?'
'Yes please.'
I turn over and bury my throbbing head in the pillow, trying to sink into sleep again for a
couple of minutes. Which normally I would find very easy. But today, something's niggling at
me. Have I forgotten something?
As I half listen to Connor clattering around in the kitchen, and the tinny background sound of
the telly, my mind gropes blearily around for clues. It's Saturday morning. I'm in Connor's bed.
We went out for supper — oh God, that awful plane ride… he came to the airport, and he said
…
We're moving in together!
I sit up, just as Connor comes in with two mugs and a cafetiere. He's dressed in a white waffle
robe and looks completely gorgeous. I feel a prickle of pride, and reach over to give him a
kiss.
'Hi,' he says, laughing. 'Careful.' He hands me my coffee. 'How are you feeling?'
'All right.' I push my hair back off my face. 'A bit groggy.'
'I'm not surprised.' Connor raises his eyebrows. 'Quite a day yesterday.'
'Absolutely.' I nod, and take a sip of coffee. 'So. We're… going to live together!'
'If you're still on for it?'
'Of course! Of course I am!' I smile brightly.
And it's true. I am.
I feel as though overnight, I've turned into a grownup. I'm moving in with my boyfriend.
Finally my life is going the way it should!
'I'll have to give Andrew notice…' Connor gestures towards the wall, on the other side of
which is his flatmate's room.
'And I'll have to tell Lissy and Jemima.'
'And we'll have to find the right place. And you'll have to promise to keep it tidy.' He gives
me a teasing grin.
'I like that!' I feign outrage. 'You're the one with fifty million CDs.'
'That's different!'
'How is it different, may I ask?' I plant my hand on my hip, like someone in a sitcom, and
Connor laughs.
There's a pause, as though we've both run out of steam, and we take a sip of coffee.
'So anyway,' says Connor after a while, 'I should get going.' Connor is attending a course on
computers this weekend. 'I'm sorry I'll miss your parents,' he adds.
And he really is. I mean, as if he wasn't already the perfect boyfriend, he actually enjoys
visiting my parents.
'That's OK,' I say benevolently. 'It doesn't matter.'
'Oh, and I forgot to tell you.' Connor gives me a mysterious grin. 'Guess what I've got tickets
for?'
'Ooh!' I say excitedly. 'Um…'
I'm about to say 'Paris!'
'The jazz festival!' Connor beams. 'The Dennisson Quartet! It's their last concert of the year.
Remember we heard them at Ronnie Scott's?'
For a moment I can't quite speak.
'Wow!' I manage at last. 'The… Dennisson Quartet! I do remember.'
They played clarinets. On and on and on, for about two hours, without even taking a breath.
'I knew you'd be pleased.' Connor touches my arm affectionately, and I give him a feeble
smile.
'Oh, I am!'
The thing is, I probably will get to like jazz one day. In fact, I'm positive I will.
I watch fondly as he gets dressed, flosses his teeth and picks up his briefcase.
'You wore my present,' he says with a pleased smile, glancing at my discarded underwear on
the floor.
'I… often wear them,' I say, crossing my fingers behind my back. 'They're so gorgeous!'
'Have a lovely day with your family.' Connor comes over to the bed to kiss me, and then
hesitates. 'Emma?'
'Yes?'
He sits down on the bed and gazes seriously at me. Gosh, his eyes are so blue.
'There's something I wanted to say.' He bites his lip. 'You know we always speak frankly to
each other about our relationship.'
'Er… yes,' I say, feeling a little apprehensive.
'This is just an idea. You may not like it. I mean… it's completely up to you.'
I gaze at Connor in puzzlement. His face is growing pink, and he looks really embarrassed.
Oh my God. Is he going to start getting kinky? Does he want me to dress up in outfits and
stuff?
I wouldn't mind being a nurse, actually. Or Catwoman from Batman. That would be cool. I
could get some shiny boots…
'I was thinking that… perhaps… we could…' He stops awkwardly.
'Yes?' I put a supportive hand on his arm.
'We could…' He stops again.
'Yes?'
There's another silence. I almost can't breathe. What does he want us to do? What?
'We could start calling each other "darling",' he says in an embarrassed rush.
'What?' I say blankly.
'It's just that…' Connor flushes pinker. 'We're going to be living together. It's quite a
commitment. And I noticed recently, we never seem to use any… terms of endearment.'
I stare at him, feeling caught out.
'Don't we?'
'No.'
'Oh.' I take a sip of coffee. Now I think about it, he's right. We don't. Why don't we?
'So what do you think? Only if you want to.'
'Absolutely!' I say quickly. 'I mean, you're right. Of course we should.' I clear my throat.
'Darling!'
'Thanks, darling,' he says, with a loving smile, and I smile back, trying to ignore the tiny
protests inside my head.
This doesn't feel right.
I don't feel like a darling.
Darling is a married person with pearls and a four-wheel-drive.
'Emma?' Connor's staring at me. 'Is something wrong?'
'I'm not sure!' I give a self-conscious laugh. 'I just don't know if I feel like a "darling". But…
you know. It may grow on me.'
'Really? Well, we can use something else. What about "dear"?'
Dear? Is he serious?
'No,' I say quickly. 'I think "darling" is better.'
'Or "sweetheart"… "honey"… "angel"
'Maybe. Look, can we just leave it?'
Connor's face falls, and I feel bad. Come on. I can call my boyfriend 'darling', for God's sake.
This is what growing up's all about. I'm just going to have to get used to it.
'Connor, I'm sorry,' I say. 'I don't know what's wrong with me. Maybe I'm still a bit tense after
that flight.' I take his hand. 'Darling.'
'That's all right, darling.' He smiles back at me, his sunny expression restored, and gives me a
kiss. 'See you later.'
You see. Easy.
Oh God.
Anyway. It doesn't matter. I expect all couples have this kind of awkward-ish moment. It's
probably perfectly normal.
It takes me about half an hour to get from Connor's place in Maida Vale to Islington, which is
where I live, and as I open the door I find Lissy on the sofa. She's surrounded by papers and
has a frown of concentration on her face. She works so hard, Lissy. She really overdoes it
sometimes.
'What are you working on?' I say sympathetically. 'Is it that fraud case?'
'No, it's this article,' says Lissy abstractly, and lifts up a glossy magazine. 'It says since the
days of Cleopatra, the proportions of beauty have been the same, and there's a way to work
out how beautiful you are, scientifically. You do all these measurements…'
'Oh right!' I say interestedly. 'So what are you?'
'I'm just working it out.' She frowns at the page again. 'That makes 53… subtract 20…
makes… Oh my God!' She stares at the page in dismay. 'I only got 33!'
'Out of what?'
'A hundred! 33 out of a hundred!'
'Oh Lissy. That's crap.'
'I know,' says Lissy seriously. 'I'm ugly. I knew it. You know, all my life I've kind of secretly
known, but-'
'No!' I say, trying not to laugh. 'I meant the magazine's crap! You can't measure beauty with
some stupid index. Just look at you!' I gesture at Lissy, who has the biggest grey eyes in the
world, and gorgeous clear pale skin and is frankly stunning, even if her last haircut was a bit
severe. 'I mean, who are you going to believe? The mirror or a stupid mindless magazine
article?'
'A stupid mindless magazine article,' says Lissy, as though it's perfectly obvious.
I know she's half joking. But ever since her boyfriend Simon chucked her, Lissy's had really
low self-esteem. I'm actually a bit worried about her.
'Is that the golden proportion of beauty?' says our other flatmate Jemima, tapping into the
room in her kitten heels. She's wearing pale pink jeans and a tight white top and as usual, she
looks perfectly tanned and groomed. In theory, Jemima has a job, working in a sculpture
gallery. But all she ever seems to do is have bits of her waxed and plucked and massaged, and
go on dates with city bankers, whose salary she always checks out before she says yes.
I do get on with Jemima. Kind of. It's just that she tends to begin all her sentences 'If you want
a rock on your finger,' and 'If you want an SW3 address,' and 'If you want to be known as a
seriously good dinner-party hostess.'
I mean, I wouldn't mind being known as a seriously good dinner-party hostess. You know. It's
just not exactly highest on my list of priorities right now.
Plus, Jemima's idea of being a seriously good dinner-party hostess is inviting lots of rich
friends over, decorating the whole flat with twiggy things, getting caterers to cook loads of
yummy food and telling everyone she made it herself, then sending her flatmates (me and
Lissy) out to the cinema for the night and looking affronted when they dare creep back in at
midnight and make themselves a hot chocolate.
'I did that quiz,' she says now, picking up her pink Louis Vuitton bag. Her dad bought it for
her as a present when she broke up with a guy after three dates. Like she was heartbroken.
Mind you, he had a yacht, so she probably was heart-broken.
'What did you get?' says Lissy.
'Eighty-nine.' She spritzes herself with perfume, tosses her long blond hair back and smiles at
herself in the mirror. 'So Emma, is it true you're moving in with Connor?' I gape at her.
'How did you know that?'
'Word on the street. Andrew called Rupes this morning about cricket, and he told him.'
'Are you moving in with Connor?' says Lissy incredulously. 'Why didn't you tell me?'
'I was about to, honestly. Isn't it great?'
'Bad move, Emma.' Jemima shakes her head. 'Very bad tactics.'
'Tactics?' says Lissy, rolling her eyes. 'Tactics? Jemima, they're having a relationship, not
playing chess!'
'A relationship is a game of chess,' retorts Jemima, brushing mascara onto her lashes.
'Mummy says you always have to look ahead. You have to plan strategically. If you make the
wrong move, you've had it.'
'That's rubbish!' says Lissy defiantly. 'A relationship is about like minds. It's about soulmates
finding each other.'
'Soulmates!' says Jemima dismissively, and looks at me. 'Just remember, Emma, if you want a
rock on your finger, don't move in with Connor.'
Her eyes give a swift, Pavlovian glance to the photograph on the mantelpiece of her meeting
Prince William at a charity polo match.
'Still holding out for Royalty?' says Lissy. 'How much younger is he than you, again,
Jemima?'
'Don't be stupid!' she snaps, colour tinging her cheeks. 'You're so immature sometimes, Lissy.'
'Anyway, I don't want a rock on my finger,' I retort.
Jemima raises her perfectly arched eyebrows as though to say, 'you poor, ignorant fool', and
picks up her bag.
'Oh,' she suddenly adds, her eyes narrowing. 'Has either of you borrowed my Joseph jumper?'
There's a tiny beat of silence.
'No,' I say innocently.
'I don't even know which one it is,' says Lissy, with a shrug.
I can't look at Lissy. I'm sure I saw her wearing it the other night.
Jemima's blue eyes are running over me and Lissy like some kind of radar scanners.
'Because I have very slender arms,' she says warningly, 'and I really don't want the sleeves
stretched. And don't think I won't notice, because I will. Ciao.'
The minute she's gone Lissy and I look at each other.
'Shit,' says Lissy. 'I think I left it at work. Oh well, I'll pick it up on Monday.' She shrugs and
goes back to reading the magazine.
OK. So the truth is, we do both occasionally borrow Jemima's clothes. Without asking. But in
our defence, she has so many, she hardly ever notices. Plus according to Lissy, it's a basic
human right that flatmates should be able to borrow each others' clothes. She says it's
practically part of the unwritten British constitution.
'And anyway,' adds Lissy, 'she owes it to me for writing her that letter to the council about all
her parking tickets. You know, she never even said thank you.' She looks up from an article
on Nicole Kidman. 'So what are you doing later on? D'you want to see a film?'
'I can't,' I say reluctantly. 'I've got my mum's birthday lunch.'
'Oh yes, of course.' She pulls a sympathetic face. 'Good luck. I hope it's OK.'
Lissy is the only person in the world who has any idea how I feel about visiting home. And
even she doesn't know it all.
FOUR
But as I sit on the train down, I'm resolved that this time will be better. I was watching a
Cindy Blaine show the other day, all about reuniting long-lost daughters with their mothers,
and it was so moving I soon had tears running down my face. At the end, Cindy gave this
little homily about how it's far too easy to take our families for granted and that they gave us
life and we should cherish them. And suddenly I felt really chastened.
So these are my resolutions for today:
I will not:
Let my family stress me out.
Feel jealous of Kerry, or let Nev wind me up.
Look at my watch, wondering how soon I can leave.
I will:
Stay serene and loving and remember that we are all sacred links in the eternal circle of life.
(I got that from Cindy Blaine, too.)
Mum and Dad used to live in Twickenham, which is where I grew up. But now they've moved
out of London to a village in Hampshire. I arrive at their house just after twelve, to find Mum
in the kitchen with my cousin Kerry. She and her husband Nev have moved out too, to a
village about five minutes' drive from Mum and Dad, so they see each other all the time.
I feel a familiar pang as I see them, standing side by side by the stove. They look more like
mother and daughter than aunt and niece. They've both got the same feather-cut hair -
although Kerry's is highlighted more strongly than Mum's — they're both wearing brightly
coloured tops which show a lot of tanned cleavage, and they're both laughing. On the counter,
I notice a bottle of white wine already half gone.
'Happy birthday!' I say, hugging Mum. As I glimpse a wrapped parcel on the kitchen table, I
feel a little thrill of anticipation. I have got Mum the best birthday present. I can't wait to give
it to her!
'Hiya!' says Kerry, turning round in her apron. Her blue eyes are heavily made-up, and round
her neck she's wearing a diamond cross which I haven't seen before. Every time I see Kerry
she has a new piece of jewellery. 'Great to see you, Emma! We don't see enough of you. Do
we, Aunty Rachel?'
'We certainly don't,' says Mum, giving me a hug.
'Shall I take your coat?' says Kerry, as I put the bottle of champagne I've brought into the
fridge. 'And what about a drink?'
This is how Kerry always talks to me. As though I'm a visitor.
But never mind. I'm not going to stress about it. Sacred links in the eternal circle of life.
'It's OK,' I say, trying to sound pleasant. 'I'll get it.' I open the cupboard where glasses are
always kept, to find myself looking at tins of tomatoes.
'They're over here,' says Kerry, on the other side of the kitchen. 'We moved everything
around! It makes much more sense now.'
'Oh right. Thanks.' I take the glass she gives me and take a sip of wine. 'Can I do anything to
help?'
'I don't think so…' says Kerry, looking critically around the kitchen. 'Everything's pretty
much done. So I said to Elaine,' she adds to Mum, '"Where did you get those shoes?" And she
said M S! I couldn't believe it!'
'Who's Elaine?' I say, trying to join in.
'At the golf club,' says Kerry.
Mum never used to play golf. But when she moved to Hampshire, she and Kerry took it up
together. And now all I hear about is golf matches, golf club dinners, and endless parties with
chums from the golf club.
I did once go along, to see what it was all about. But first of all they have all these stupid rules
about what you can wear, which I didn't know, and some old guy nearly had a heart attack
because I was in jeans. So they had to find me a skirt, and a spare pair of those clumpy shoes
with spikes. And then when we got on to the course I couldn't hit the ball. Not I couldn't hit
the ball well: I literally could not make contact with the ball. So in the end they all exchanged
glances and said I'd better wait in the clubhouse.
'Sorry, Emma, can I just get past you…' Kerry reaches over my shoulder for a serving dish.
'Sorry,' I say, and move aside. 'So, is there really nothing I can do, Mum?'
'You could feed Sammy,' she says, giving me a pot of goldfish food. She frowns anxiously.
'You know, I'm a bit worried about Sammy.'
'Oh,' I say, feeling a spasm of alarm. 'Er… why?'
'He just doesn't seem himself.' She peers at him in his bowl. 'What do you think? Does he look
right to you?'
I follow her gaze and pull a thoughtful face, as though I'm studying Sammy's features.
Oh God. I never thought she would notice. I tried as hard as I could to get a fish that looked
just like Sammy. I mean he's orange, he's got two fins, he swims around… What's the
difference?
'He's probably just a bit depressed,' I say at last. 'He'll get over it.'
Please don't let her take him to the vet or anything, I silently pray. I didn't even check if I got
the right sex. Do goldfishes even have sexes?
'Anything else I can do?' I say, sprinkling fish food lavishly over the water in an attempt to
block her view of him.
'We've pretty much got it covered,' says Kerry kindly.
'Why don't you go and say hello to Dad?' says Mum, sieving some peas. 'Lunch won't be for
another ten minutes or so.'
I find Dad and Nev in the sitting room, in front of the cricket. Dad's greying beard is as neatly
trimmed as ever, and he's drinking beer from a silver tankard. The room has recently been
redecorated, but on the wall there's still a display of all Kerry's swimming cups. Mum polishes
them regularly, every week.
Plus my couple of riding rosettes. I think she kind of flicks those with a duster.
'Hi, Dad,' I say, giving him a kiss.
'Emma!' He puts a hand to his head in mock-surprise. 'You made it! No detours! No visits to
historic cities!'
'Not today!' I give a little laugh. 'Safe and sound.'
There was this time, just after Mum and Dad had moved to this house, when I took the wrong
train on the way down and ended up in Salisbury, and Dad always teases me about it.
'Hi, Nev.' I peck him on the cheek, trying not to choke on the amount of aftershave he's
wearing. He's in chinos and a white roll-neck, and has a heavy gold bracelet round his wrist,
plus a wedding ring with a diamond set in it. Nev runs his family's company, which supplies
office equipment all round the country, and he met Kerry at some convention for young
entrepreneurs. Apparently they struck up conversation admiring each other's Rolex watches.
'Hi, Emma,' he says. 'D'you see the new motor?'
'What?' I peer at him blankly — then recall a glossy new car on the drive when I arrived. 'Oh
yes! Very smart.'
'Mercedes 5 Series.' He takes a slug of beer. 'Forty-two grand list price.'
'Gosh.'
'Didn't pay that, though.' He taps the side of his nose. 'Have a guess.'
'Erm… forty?'
'Guess again.'
'Thirty-nine?'
'Thirty-seven-two-fifty,' says Nev triumphantly. 'And free CD changer. Tax deductible,' he
adds.
'Right. Wow.'
I don't really know what else to say, so I perch on the side of the sofa and eat a peanut.
'That's what you're aiming for, Emma!' says Dad. 'Think you'll ever make it?'
'I… don't know. Er… Dad, that reminds me. I've got a cheque for you.' Awkwardly I reach
in my bag and get out a cheque for ?300.
'Well done,' says Dad. 'That can go on the tally.' His green eyes twinkle as he puts it in his
pocket. 'It's called learning the value of money. It's called learning to stand on your own two
feet!'
'Valuable lesson,' says Nev, nodding. He takes a slug of beer and grins at Dad. 'Just remind
me, Emma — what career is it this week?'
When I first met Nev it was just after I'd left the estate agency to become a photographer.
Two and a half years ago. And he makes this same joke every time I see him. Every single
bloody-
OK, calm down. Happy thoughts. Cherish your family. Cherish Nev.
'It's still marketing!' I say brightly. 'Has been for over a year now.'
'Ah. Marketing. Good, good!'
There's silence for a few minutes, apart from the cricket commentary. Suddenly Dad and Nev
simultaneously groan as something or other happens on the cricket pitch. A moment later they
groan again.
'Right,' I say. 'Well, I'll just…'
As I get up from the sofa, they don't even turn their heads.
I go out to the hall and pick up the cardboard box which I brought down with me. Then I go
through the side gate, knock on the annexe door and push it cautiously.
'Grandpa?'
Grandpa is Mum's dad, and he's lived with us ever since he had his heart operation, ten years
ago. At the old house in Twickenham he just had a bedroom, but this house is bigger, so he
has his own annexe of two rooms, and a tiny little kitchen, tacked onto the side of the house.
He's sitting in his favourite leather armchair, with the radio playing classical music, and on
the floor in front of him are about six cardboard packing cases full of stuff.
'Hi, Grandpa,' I say.
'Emma!' He looks up, and his face lights up. 'Darling girl. Come here!' I bend over to give him
a kiss, and he squeezes my hand tight. His skin is dry and cool, and his hair is even whiter
than it was last time I saw him.
'I've got some more Panther Bars for you,' I say, nodding to my box. Grandpa is completely
addicted to Panther energy bars, and so are all his friends at the bowling club, so I use my
allowance to buy him a boxful for every time I come home.
'Thank you, my love,' Grandpa beams. 'You're a good girl, Emma.'
'Where should I put them?'
We both look helplessly around the cluttered room.
'What about over there, behind the television?' says Grandpa at last. I pick my way across the
room, dump the box on the floor, then retrace my steps, trying not to tread on anything.
'Now, Emma, I read a very worrying newspaper article the other day,' says Grandpa as I sit
down on one of the packing cases. 'About safety in London.' He gives me a beady look. 'You
don't travel on public transport in the evenings, do you?'
'Erm… hardly ever,' I say, crossing my fingers behind my back. 'Just now and then, when I
absolutely have to…'
'Darling girl, you mustn't!' says Grandpa, looking agitated. 'Teenagers in hoods with flickknives
roam the underground, it said. Drunken louts, breaking bottles, gouging one another's
eyes out…'
'It's not that bad-'
'Emma, it's not worth the risk! For the sake of a taxi fare or two.'
I'm pretty sure that if I asked Grandpa what he thought the average taxi fare was in London,
he'd say five shillings.
'Honestly, Grandpa, I'm really careful,' I say reassuringly. 'And I do take taxis.'
Sometimes. About once a year.
'Anyway. What's all this stuff?' I ask, to change the subject, and Grandpa gives a gusty sigh.
'Your mother cleared out the attic last week. I'm just sorting out what to throw away and what
to keep.'
'That seems like a good idea.' I look at the pile of rubbish on the floor. 'Is this stuff you're
throwing away?'
'No! I'm keeping all that.' He puts a protective hand over it.
'So where's the pile of stuff to throw out?'
There's silence. Grandpa avoids my gaze.
'Grandpa! You have to throw some of this away!' I exclaim, trying not to laugh. 'You don't
need all these old newspaper cuttings. And what's this?' I reach past the newspaper cuttings
and fish out an old yo-yo. 'This is rubbish, surely.'
'Jim's yo-yo.' Grandpa reaches for the yo-yo, his eyes softening. 'Good old Jim.'
'Who was Jim?' I say, puzzled. I've never even heard of a Jim before. 'Was he a good friend of
yours?'
'We met at the fairground. Spent the afternoon together. I was nine.' Grandpa is turning the
yo-yo over and over in his fingers.
'Did you become friends?'
'Never saw him again.' He shakes his head mistily. 'I've never forgotten it.'
The trouble with Grandpa is, he never forgets anything.
'Well, what about some of these cards?' I pull out a bundle of old Christmas cards.
'I never throw away cards.' Grandpa gives me a long look. 'When you get to my age; when the
people you've known and loved all your life start to pass away… you want to hang onto any
memento. However small.'
'I can understand that,' I say, feeling touched. I reach for the nearest card, open it and my
expression changes. 'Grandpa! This is from Smith's Electrical Maintenance, 1965.'
'Frank Smith was a very good man-' starts Grandpa.
'No!' I put the card firmly on the floor. 'That's going. And nor do you need one from…' I open
the next card. 'Southwestern Gas Supplies. And you don't need twenty old copies of Punch.' I
deposit them on the pile. 'And what are these?' I reach into the box again and pull out an
envelope of photos. 'Are these actually of anything you really want to-'
Something shoots through my heart and I stop, midstream.
I'm looking at a photograph of me and Dad and Mum, sitting on a bench in a park. Mum's
wearing a flowery dress, and Dad's wearing a stupid sunhat, and I'm on his knee, aged about
nine, eating an ice-cream. We all look so happy together.
Wordlessly, I turn to another photo. I've got Dad's hat on and we're all laughing helplessly at
something. Just us three.
Just us. Before Kerry came into our lives.
I still remember the day she arrived. A red suitcase in the hall, and a new voice in the kitchen,
and an unfamiliar smell of perfume in the air. I walked in and there she was, a stranger,
drinking a cup of tea. She was wearing school uniform, but she still looked like a grown-up to
me. She already had an enormous bust, and gold studs in her ears, and streaks in her hair. And
at suppertime, Mum and Dad let her have a glass of wine. Mum kept telling me I had to be
very kind to her, because her mother had died. We all had to be very kind to Kerry. That was
why she got my room.
I leaf through the rest of the pictures, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. I remember
this place now. The park we used to go to, with swings and slides. But it was too boring for
Kerry, and I desperately wanted to be like her, so I said it was boring too, and we never went
again.
'Knock knock!' I look up with a start, and Kerry's standing at the door, holding her glass of
wine. 'Lunch is ready!'
'Thanks,' I say. 'We're just coming.'
'Now, Gramps!' Kerry wags her finger reprovingly at Grandpa, and gestures at the packing
cases. 'Haven't you got anywhere with this lot yet?'
'It's difficult,' I hear myself saying defensively. 'There are a lot of memories in here. You can't
just throw them out.'
'If you say so.' Kerry rolls her eyes. 'If it were me, the whole lot'd go in the bin.'
I cannot cherish her. I cannot do it. I want to throw my treacle tart at her.
We've been sitting round the table now for forty minutes and the only voice we've heard is
Kerry's.
'It's all about image,' she's saying now. 'It's all about the right clothes, the right look, the right
walk. When I walk along the street, the message I give the world is "I am a successful
woman".'
'Show us!' says Mum admiringly.
'Well.' Kerry gives a false-modest smile. 'Like this.' She pushes her chair back and wipes her
mouth with her napkin.
'You should watch this, Emma,' says Mum. 'Pick up a few tips!'
As we all watch, Kerry starts striding round the room. Her chin is raised, her boobs are
sticking out, her eyes are fixed on the middle distance, and her bottom is jerking from side to
side.
She looks like a cross between an ostrich and one of the androids in Attack of the Clones.
'I should be in heels, of course,' she says, without stopping.
'When Kerry goes into a conference hall, I tell you, heads turn,' says Nev proudly, and takes a
sip of wine. 'People stop what they're doing and stare at her!'
I bet they do.
Oh God. I want to giggle. I mustn't. I mustn't.
'Do you want to have a go, Emma?' says Kerry. 'Copy me?'
'Er… I don't think so,' I say. 'I think I probably… picked up the basics.'
Suddenly I give a tiny snort and turn it into a cough.
'Kerry's trying to help you, Emma!' says Mum. 'You should be grateful! You are good to
Emma, Kerry.'
She beams fondly at Kerry, who simpers back. And I take a swig of wine.
Yeah, right. Kerry really wants to help me.
That's why when I was completely desperate for a job and asked her for work experience at
her company, she said no. I wrote her this long, careful letter, saying I realized it put her in an
awkward situation, but I'd really appreciate any chance, even a couple of days running errands.
And she sent back a standard rejection letter.
I was so totally mortified, I never told anyone. Especially not Mum and Dad.
'You should listen to some of Kerry's business tips, Emma,' Dad is saying sharply. 'Maybe if
you paid more attention you'd do a bit better in life.'
'It's only a walk,' quips Nev with a chortle. 'It's not a miracle cure!'
'Nev!' says Mum half reprovingly.
'Emma knows I'm joking, don't you, Emma?' says Nev easily and fills up his glass with more
wine.
'Of course!' I say, forcing myself to smile gaily.
Just wait till I get promoted.
Just wait. Just wait.
'Emma! Earth to Emma!' Kerry is waving a comical hand in front of my face. 'Wake up,
Dopey! We're doing presents.'
'Oh right,' I say, coming to. 'OK. I'll just go and get mine.'
As Mum opens a camera from Dad and a purse from Grandpa, I start to feel excited. I so hope
Mum likes my present.
'It doesn't look much,' I say as I hand her the pink envelope. 'But you'll see when you open it
…'
'What can it be?' Mum says, looking intrigued. She rips open the envelope, opens the flowered
card, and stares at it. 'Oh, Emma!'
'What is it?' says Dad.
'It's a day at a spa!' says Mum in delight. 'A whole day of pampering.'
'What a good idea,' says Grandpa, and pats my hand. 'You always have good ideas for
presents, Emma.'
'Thank you, love. How thoughtful!' Mum leans over to kiss me, and I feel a warm glow inside.
I had the idea a few months ago. It's a really nice day-long package, with free treatments and
everything.
'You get champagne lunch,' I say eagerly. 'And you can keep the slippers!'
'Wonderful!' says Mum. 'I'll look forward to it. Emma, that's a lovely present!'
'Oh dear,' says Kerry, giving a little laugh. She looks at the large creamy envelope in her own
hands. 'My present's slightly upstaged, I'm afraid. Never mind. I'll change it.'
I look up, alert. There's something about Kerry's voice. I know something's up. I just know it.
'What do you mean?' says Mum.
'It doesn't matter,' says Kerry. 'I'll just… find something else. Not to worry.' She starts to put
the envelope away in her bag.
'Kerry, love!' says Mum. 'Stop that! Don't be silly. What is it?'
'Well,' says Kerry. 'It's just that Emma and I seem to have had the same idea.' She hands Mum
the envelope with another little laugh. 'Can you believe it?'
My whole body stiffens in apprehension.
No.
No. She can't have done what I think she's done.
There's complete silence as Mum opens the envelope.
'Oh my goodness!' she says, taking out a gold embossed brochure. 'What's this? Le Spa
Meridien?' Something falls out, into her hands, and she stares at it. 'Tickets to Paris? Kerry!'
She has. She's ruined my present.
'For both of you,' adds Kerry, a little smugly. 'Uncle Brian, too.'
'Kerry!' says Dad in delight. 'You marvel!'
'It is supposed to be rather good,' says Kerry with a complacent smile. 'Five-star
accommodation… the chef has three Michelin stars…'
'I don't believe this,' says Mum. She's leafing excitedly through the brochure. 'Look at the
swimming pool! Look at the gardens!'
My flowery card is lying, forgotten, amid the wrapping paper.
All at once I feel close to tears. She knew. She knew.
'Kerry, you knew,' I suddenly blurt out, unable to stop myself. 'I told you I was giving Mum a
spa treat. I told you! We had that conversation about it, months ago. In the garden!'
'Did we?' says Kerry casually. 'I don't remember.'
'You do! Of course you remember.'
'Emma!' says Mum sharply. 'It was a simple mistake. Wasn't it, Kerry?'
'Of course it was!' says Kerry, opening her eyes in wide innocence. 'Emma, if I've spoiled
things for you, I can only apologize-'
'There's no need to apologize, Kerry love,' says Mum. 'These things happen. And they're both
lovely presents. Both of them.' She looks at my card again. 'Now, you two girls are best
friends! I don't like to see you quarrelling. Especially on my birthday.'
Mum smiles at me, and I try to smile back. But inside, I feel about ten years old again. Kerry
always manages to wrong-foot me. She always has done, ever since she arrived. Whatever she
did, everyone took her side. She was the one whose mother had died. We all had to be nice to
her. I could never, ever win.
Trying to pull myself together, I reach for my wine glass and take a huge swig. Then I find
myself surreptitiously glancing at my watch. I can leave at four if I make an excuse about
trains running late. That's only another hour and a half to get through. And maybe we'll watch
telly or something…
'A penny for your thoughts, Emma,' says Grandpa, patting my hand with a little smile, and I
look up guiltily.
'Er… nothing,' I say, and force a smile. 'I wasn't really thinking about anything.'
Cindy Blaine show the other day, all about reuniting long-lost daughters with their mothers,
and it was so moving I soon had tears running down my face. At the end, Cindy gave this
little homily about how it's far too easy to take our families for granted and that they gave us
life and we should cherish them. And suddenly I felt really chastened.
So these are my resolutions for today:
I will not:
Let my family stress me out.
Feel jealous of Kerry, or let Nev wind me up.
Look at my watch, wondering how soon I can leave.
I will:
Stay serene and loving and remember that we are all sacred links in the eternal circle of life.
(I got that from Cindy Blaine, too.)
Mum and Dad used to live in Twickenham, which is where I grew up. But now they've moved
out of London to a village in Hampshire. I arrive at their house just after twelve, to find Mum
in the kitchen with my cousin Kerry. She and her husband Nev have moved out too, to a
village about five minutes' drive from Mum and Dad, so they see each other all the time.
I feel a familiar pang as I see them, standing side by side by the stove. They look more like
mother and daughter than aunt and niece. They've both got the same feather-cut hair -
although Kerry's is highlighted more strongly than Mum's — they're both wearing brightly
coloured tops which show a lot of tanned cleavage, and they're both laughing. On the counter,
I notice a bottle of white wine already half gone.
'Happy birthday!' I say, hugging Mum. As I glimpse a wrapped parcel on the kitchen table, I
feel a little thrill of anticipation. I have got Mum the best birthday present. I can't wait to give
it to her!
'Hiya!' says Kerry, turning round in her apron. Her blue eyes are heavily made-up, and round
her neck she's wearing a diamond cross which I haven't seen before. Every time I see Kerry
she has a new piece of jewellery. 'Great to see you, Emma! We don't see enough of you. Do
we, Aunty Rachel?'
'We certainly don't,' says Mum, giving me a hug.
'Shall I take your coat?' says Kerry, as I put the bottle of champagne I've brought into the
fridge. 'And what about a drink?'
This is how Kerry always talks to me. As though I'm a visitor.
But never mind. I'm not going to stress about it. Sacred links in the eternal circle of life.
'It's OK,' I say, trying to sound pleasant. 'I'll get it.' I open the cupboard where glasses are
always kept, to find myself looking at tins of tomatoes.
'They're over here,' says Kerry, on the other side of the kitchen. 'We moved everything
around! It makes much more sense now.'
'Oh right. Thanks.' I take the glass she gives me and take a sip of wine. 'Can I do anything to
help?'
'I don't think so…' says Kerry, looking critically around the kitchen. 'Everything's pretty
much done. So I said to Elaine,' she adds to Mum, '"Where did you get those shoes?" And she
said M S! I couldn't believe it!'
'Who's Elaine?' I say, trying to join in.
'At the golf club,' says Kerry.
Mum never used to play golf. But when she moved to Hampshire, she and Kerry took it up
together. And now all I hear about is golf matches, golf club dinners, and endless parties with
chums from the golf club.
I did once go along, to see what it was all about. But first of all they have all these stupid rules
about what you can wear, which I didn't know, and some old guy nearly had a heart attack
because I was in jeans. So they had to find me a skirt, and a spare pair of those clumpy shoes
with spikes. And then when we got on to the course I couldn't hit the ball. Not I couldn't hit
the ball well: I literally could not make contact with the ball. So in the end they all exchanged
glances and said I'd better wait in the clubhouse.
'Sorry, Emma, can I just get past you…' Kerry reaches over my shoulder for a serving dish.
'Sorry,' I say, and move aside. 'So, is there really nothing I can do, Mum?'
'You could feed Sammy,' she says, giving me a pot of goldfish food. She frowns anxiously.
'You know, I'm a bit worried about Sammy.'
'Oh,' I say, feeling a spasm of alarm. 'Er… why?'
'He just doesn't seem himself.' She peers at him in his bowl. 'What do you think? Does he look
right to you?'
I follow her gaze and pull a thoughtful face, as though I'm studying Sammy's features.
Oh God. I never thought she would notice. I tried as hard as I could to get a fish that looked
just like Sammy. I mean he's orange, he's got two fins, he swims around… What's the
difference?
'He's probably just a bit depressed,' I say at last. 'He'll get over it.'
Please don't let her take him to the vet or anything, I silently pray. I didn't even check if I got
the right sex. Do goldfishes even have sexes?
'Anything else I can do?' I say, sprinkling fish food lavishly over the water in an attempt to
block her view of him.
'We've pretty much got it covered,' says Kerry kindly.
'Why don't you go and say hello to Dad?' says Mum, sieving some peas. 'Lunch won't be for
another ten minutes or so.'
I find Dad and Nev in the sitting room, in front of the cricket. Dad's greying beard is as neatly
trimmed as ever, and he's drinking beer from a silver tankard. The room has recently been
redecorated, but on the wall there's still a display of all Kerry's swimming cups. Mum polishes
them regularly, every week.
Plus my couple of riding rosettes. I think she kind of flicks those with a duster.
'Hi, Dad,' I say, giving him a kiss.
'Emma!' He puts a hand to his head in mock-surprise. 'You made it! No detours! No visits to
historic cities!'
'Not today!' I give a little laugh. 'Safe and sound.'
There was this time, just after Mum and Dad had moved to this house, when I took the wrong
train on the way down and ended up in Salisbury, and Dad always teases me about it.
'Hi, Nev.' I peck him on the cheek, trying not to choke on the amount of aftershave he's
wearing. He's in chinos and a white roll-neck, and has a heavy gold bracelet round his wrist,
plus a wedding ring with a diamond set in it. Nev runs his family's company, which supplies
office equipment all round the country, and he met Kerry at some convention for young
entrepreneurs. Apparently they struck up conversation admiring each other's Rolex watches.
'Hi, Emma,' he says. 'D'you see the new motor?'
'What?' I peer at him blankly — then recall a glossy new car on the drive when I arrived. 'Oh
yes! Very smart.'
'Mercedes 5 Series.' He takes a slug of beer. 'Forty-two grand list price.'
'Gosh.'
'Didn't pay that, though.' He taps the side of his nose. 'Have a guess.'
'Erm… forty?'
'Guess again.'
'Thirty-nine?'
'Thirty-seven-two-fifty,' says Nev triumphantly. 'And free CD changer. Tax deductible,' he
adds.
'Right. Wow.'
I don't really know what else to say, so I perch on the side of the sofa and eat a peanut.
'That's what you're aiming for, Emma!' says Dad. 'Think you'll ever make it?'
'I… don't know. Er… Dad, that reminds me. I've got a cheque for you.' Awkwardly I reach
in my bag and get out a cheque for ?300.
'Well done,' says Dad. 'That can go on the tally.' His green eyes twinkle as he puts it in his
pocket. 'It's called learning the value of money. It's called learning to stand on your own two
feet!'
'Valuable lesson,' says Nev, nodding. He takes a slug of beer and grins at Dad. 'Just remind
me, Emma — what career is it this week?'
When I first met Nev it was just after I'd left the estate agency to become a photographer.
Two and a half years ago. And he makes this same joke every time I see him. Every single
bloody-
OK, calm down. Happy thoughts. Cherish your family. Cherish Nev.
'It's still marketing!' I say brightly. 'Has been for over a year now.'
'Ah. Marketing. Good, good!'
There's silence for a few minutes, apart from the cricket commentary. Suddenly Dad and Nev
simultaneously groan as something or other happens on the cricket pitch. A moment later they
groan again.
'Right,' I say. 'Well, I'll just…'
As I get up from the sofa, they don't even turn their heads.
I go out to the hall and pick up the cardboard box which I brought down with me. Then I go
through the side gate, knock on the annexe door and push it cautiously.
'Grandpa?'
Grandpa is Mum's dad, and he's lived with us ever since he had his heart operation, ten years
ago. At the old house in Twickenham he just had a bedroom, but this house is bigger, so he
has his own annexe of two rooms, and a tiny little kitchen, tacked onto the side of the house.
He's sitting in his favourite leather armchair, with the radio playing classical music, and on
the floor in front of him are about six cardboard packing cases full of stuff.
'Hi, Grandpa,' I say.
'Emma!' He looks up, and his face lights up. 'Darling girl. Come here!' I bend over to give him
a kiss, and he squeezes my hand tight. His skin is dry and cool, and his hair is even whiter
than it was last time I saw him.
'I've got some more Panther Bars for you,' I say, nodding to my box. Grandpa is completely
addicted to Panther energy bars, and so are all his friends at the bowling club, so I use my
allowance to buy him a boxful for every time I come home.
'Thank you, my love,' Grandpa beams. 'You're a good girl, Emma.'
'Where should I put them?'
We both look helplessly around the cluttered room.
'What about over there, behind the television?' says Grandpa at last. I pick my way across the
room, dump the box on the floor, then retrace my steps, trying not to tread on anything.
'Now, Emma, I read a very worrying newspaper article the other day,' says Grandpa as I sit
down on one of the packing cases. 'About safety in London.' He gives me a beady look. 'You
don't travel on public transport in the evenings, do you?'
'Erm… hardly ever,' I say, crossing my fingers behind my back. 'Just now and then, when I
absolutely have to…'
'Darling girl, you mustn't!' says Grandpa, looking agitated. 'Teenagers in hoods with flickknives
roam the underground, it said. Drunken louts, breaking bottles, gouging one another's
eyes out…'
'It's not that bad-'
'Emma, it's not worth the risk! For the sake of a taxi fare or two.'
I'm pretty sure that if I asked Grandpa what he thought the average taxi fare was in London,
he'd say five shillings.
'Honestly, Grandpa, I'm really careful,' I say reassuringly. 'And I do take taxis.'
Sometimes. About once a year.
'Anyway. What's all this stuff?' I ask, to change the subject, and Grandpa gives a gusty sigh.
'Your mother cleared out the attic last week. I'm just sorting out what to throw away and what
to keep.'
'That seems like a good idea.' I look at the pile of rubbish on the floor. 'Is this stuff you're
throwing away?'
'No! I'm keeping all that.' He puts a protective hand over it.
'So where's the pile of stuff to throw out?'
There's silence. Grandpa avoids my gaze.
'Grandpa! You have to throw some of this away!' I exclaim, trying not to laugh. 'You don't
need all these old newspaper cuttings. And what's this?' I reach past the newspaper cuttings
and fish out an old yo-yo. 'This is rubbish, surely.'
'Jim's yo-yo.' Grandpa reaches for the yo-yo, his eyes softening. 'Good old Jim.'
'Who was Jim?' I say, puzzled. I've never even heard of a Jim before. 'Was he a good friend of
yours?'
'We met at the fairground. Spent the afternoon together. I was nine.' Grandpa is turning the
yo-yo over and over in his fingers.
'Did you become friends?'
'Never saw him again.' He shakes his head mistily. 'I've never forgotten it.'
The trouble with Grandpa is, he never forgets anything.
'Well, what about some of these cards?' I pull out a bundle of old Christmas cards.
'I never throw away cards.' Grandpa gives me a long look. 'When you get to my age; when the
people you've known and loved all your life start to pass away… you want to hang onto any
memento. However small.'
'I can understand that,' I say, feeling touched. I reach for the nearest card, open it and my
expression changes. 'Grandpa! This is from Smith's Electrical Maintenance, 1965.'
'Frank Smith was a very good man-' starts Grandpa.
'No!' I put the card firmly on the floor. 'That's going. And nor do you need one from…' I open
the next card. 'Southwestern Gas Supplies. And you don't need twenty old copies of Punch.' I
deposit them on the pile. 'And what are these?' I reach into the box again and pull out an
envelope of photos. 'Are these actually of anything you really want to-'
Something shoots through my heart and I stop, midstream.
I'm looking at a photograph of me and Dad and Mum, sitting on a bench in a park. Mum's
wearing a flowery dress, and Dad's wearing a stupid sunhat, and I'm on his knee, aged about
nine, eating an ice-cream. We all look so happy together.
Wordlessly, I turn to another photo. I've got Dad's hat on and we're all laughing helplessly at
something. Just us three.
Just us. Before Kerry came into our lives.
I still remember the day she arrived. A red suitcase in the hall, and a new voice in the kitchen,
and an unfamiliar smell of perfume in the air. I walked in and there she was, a stranger,
drinking a cup of tea. She was wearing school uniform, but she still looked like a grown-up to
me. She already had an enormous bust, and gold studs in her ears, and streaks in her hair. And
at suppertime, Mum and Dad let her have a glass of wine. Mum kept telling me I had to be
very kind to her, because her mother had died. We all had to be very kind to Kerry. That was
why she got my room.
I leaf through the rest of the pictures, trying to swallow the lump in my throat. I remember
this place now. The park we used to go to, with swings and slides. But it was too boring for
Kerry, and I desperately wanted to be like her, so I said it was boring too, and we never went
again.
'Knock knock!' I look up with a start, and Kerry's standing at the door, holding her glass of
wine. 'Lunch is ready!'
'Thanks,' I say. 'We're just coming.'
'Now, Gramps!' Kerry wags her finger reprovingly at Grandpa, and gestures at the packing
cases. 'Haven't you got anywhere with this lot yet?'
'It's difficult,' I hear myself saying defensively. 'There are a lot of memories in here. You can't
just throw them out.'
'If you say so.' Kerry rolls her eyes. 'If it were me, the whole lot'd go in the bin.'
I cannot cherish her. I cannot do it. I want to throw my treacle tart at her.
We've been sitting round the table now for forty minutes and the only voice we've heard is
Kerry's.
'It's all about image,' she's saying now. 'It's all about the right clothes, the right look, the right
walk. When I walk along the street, the message I give the world is "I am a successful
woman".'
'Show us!' says Mum admiringly.
'Well.' Kerry gives a false-modest smile. 'Like this.' She pushes her chair back and wipes her
mouth with her napkin.
'You should watch this, Emma,' says Mum. 'Pick up a few tips!'
As we all watch, Kerry starts striding round the room. Her chin is raised, her boobs are
sticking out, her eyes are fixed on the middle distance, and her bottom is jerking from side to
side.
She looks like a cross between an ostrich and one of the androids in Attack of the Clones.
'I should be in heels, of course,' she says, without stopping.
'When Kerry goes into a conference hall, I tell you, heads turn,' says Nev proudly, and takes a
sip of wine. 'People stop what they're doing and stare at her!'
I bet they do.
Oh God. I want to giggle. I mustn't. I mustn't.
'Do you want to have a go, Emma?' says Kerry. 'Copy me?'
'Er… I don't think so,' I say. 'I think I probably… picked up the basics.'
Suddenly I give a tiny snort and turn it into a cough.
'Kerry's trying to help you, Emma!' says Mum. 'You should be grateful! You are good to
Emma, Kerry.'
She beams fondly at Kerry, who simpers back. And I take a swig of wine.
Yeah, right. Kerry really wants to help me.
That's why when I was completely desperate for a job and asked her for work experience at
her company, she said no. I wrote her this long, careful letter, saying I realized it put her in an
awkward situation, but I'd really appreciate any chance, even a couple of days running errands.
And she sent back a standard rejection letter.
I was so totally mortified, I never told anyone. Especially not Mum and Dad.
'You should listen to some of Kerry's business tips, Emma,' Dad is saying sharply. 'Maybe if
you paid more attention you'd do a bit better in life.'
'It's only a walk,' quips Nev with a chortle. 'It's not a miracle cure!'
'Nev!' says Mum half reprovingly.
'Emma knows I'm joking, don't you, Emma?' says Nev easily and fills up his glass with more
wine.
'Of course!' I say, forcing myself to smile gaily.
Just wait till I get promoted.
Just wait. Just wait.
'Emma! Earth to Emma!' Kerry is waving a comical hand in front of my face. 'Wake up,
Dopey! We're doing presents.'
'Oh right,' I say, coming to. 'OK. I'll just go and get mine.'
As Mum opens a camera from Dad and a purse from Grandpa, I start to feel excited. I so hope
Mum likes my present.
'It doesn't look much,' I say as I hand her the pink envelope. 'But you'll see when you open it
…'
'What can it be?' Mum says, looking intrigued. She rips open the envelope, opens the flowered
card, and stares at it. 'Oh, Emma!'
'What is it?' says Dad.
'It's a day at a spa!' says Mum in delight. 'A whole day of pampering.'
'What a good idea,' says Grandpa, and pats my hand. 'You always have good ideas for
presents, Emma.'
'Thank you, love. How thoughtful!' Mum leans over to kiss me, and I feel a warm glow inside.
I had the idea a few months ago. It's a really nice day-long package, with free treatments and
everything.
'You get champagne lunch,' I say eagerly. 'And you can keep the slippers!'
'Wonderful!' says Mum. 'I'll look forward to it. Emma, that's a lovely present!'
'Oh dear,' says Kerry, giving a little laugh. She looks at the large creamy envelope in her own
hands. 'My present's slightly upstaged, I'm afraid. Never mind. I'll change it.'
I look up, alert. There's something about Kerry's voice. I know something's up. I just know it.
'What do you mean?' says Mum.
'It doesn't matter,' says Kerry. 'I'll just… find something else. Not to worry.' She starts to put
the envelope away in her bag.
'Kerry, love!' says Mum. 'Stop that! Don't be silly. What is it?'
'Well,' says Kerry. 'It's just that Emma and I seem to have had the same idea.' She hands Mum
the envelope with another little laugh. 'Can you believe it?'
My whole body stiffens in apprehension.
No.
No. She can't have done what I think she's done.
There's complete silence as Mum opens the envelope.
'Oh my goodness!' she says, taking out a gold embossed brochure. 'What's this? Le Spa
Meridien?' Something falls out, into her hands, and she stares at it. 'Tickets to Paris? Kerry!'
She has. She's ruined my present.
'For both of you,' adds Kerry, a little smugly. 'Uncle Brian, too.'
'Kerry!' says Dad in delight. 'You marvel!'
'It is supposed to be rather good,' says Kerry with a complacent smile. 'Five-star
accommodation… the chef has three Michelin stars…'
'I don't believe this,' says Mum. She's leafing excitedly through the brochure. 'Look at the
swimming pool! Look at the gardens!'
My flowery card is lying, forgotten, amid the wrapping paper.
All at once I feel close to tears. She knew. She knew.
'Kerry, you knew,' I suddenly blurt out, unable to stop myself. 'I told you I was giving Mum a
spa treat. I told you! We had that conversation about it, months ago. In the garden!'
'Did we?' says Kerry casually. 'I don't remember.'
'You do! Of course you remember.'
'Emma!' says Mum sharply. 'It was a simple mistake. Wasn't it, Kerry?'
'Of course it was!' says Kerry, opening her eyes in wide innocence. 'Emma, if I've spoiled
things for you, I can only apologize-'
'There's no need to apologize, Kerry love,' says Mum. 'These things happen. And they're both
lovely presents. Both of them.' She looks at my card again. 'Now, you two girls are best
friends! I don't like to see you quarrelling. Especially on my birthday.'
Mum smiles at me, and I try to smile back. But inside, I feel about ten years old again. Kerry
always manages to wrong-foot me. She always has done, ever since she arrived. Whatever she
did, everyone took her side. She was the one whose mother had died. We all had to be nice to
her. I could never, ever win.
Trying to pull myself together, I reach for my wine glass and take a huge swig. Then I find
myself surreptitiously glancing at my watch. I can leave at four if I make an excuse about
trains running late. That's only another hour and a half to get through. And maybe we'll watch
telly or something…
'A penny for your thoughts, Emma,' says Grandpa, patting my hand with a little smile, and I
look up guiltily.
'Er… nothing,' I say, and force a smile. 'I wasn't really thinking about anything.'
FIVE
Anyway. It doesn't matter, because I'm going to get a promotion. Then Nev will stop making
cracks about my career, and I'll be able to pay back Dad. Everyone will be really impressed -
and it'll be fantastic!
I wake up on Monday morning feeling totally bouncy and positive, and get dressed in my
usual work outfit of jeans and a nice top, this one from French Connection.
Well, not exactly French Connection. To be honest, I bought it at Oxfam. But the label says
French Connection. And while I'm still paying off Dad I don't have much choice about where
I shop. I mean, a new top from French Connection costs about fifty quid, whereas this one
cost ?7.50. And it's practically new!
As I skip up the tube steps, the sun's shining and I'm full of optimism. Imagine if I do get
promoted. Imagine telling everybody. Mum will say, 'How was your week?' and I'll say, 'Well,
actually…'
No, what I'll do is wait until I go home, and then just nonchalantly hand over my new
business card.
Or maybe I'll just drive up in my company car I think in excitement! I mean, I'm not sure any
of the other marketing executives have cars — but you never know, do you? They might
introduce it as a new thing. Or they might say, 'Emma, we've chosen you specially-'
'Emma!'
I look round to see Katie, my friend from Personnel, climbing the tube steps behind me,
panting slightly. Her curly red hair is all tousled, and she's holding one shoe in her hand.
'What on earth happened?' I say as she reaches the top.
'My stupid shoe,' says Katie disconsolately. 'I only had it mended the other day, and the heel's
just come off.' She flaps it at me. 'I paid six quid for that heel! God, this day is such a disaster.
The milkman forgot to bring me any milk, and I had a terrible weekend…'
'I thought you were spending it with Charlie,' I say in surprise. 'What happened?'
Charlie is Katie's latest man. They've been seeing each other for a few weeks and she was
supposed to be visiting his country cottage, which he's doing up at the weekends.
'It was awful! As soon as we arrived, he said he was going off to play golf.'
'Oh right.' I try to find a positive angle. 'Well, at least he's comfortable with you. He can just
act normally.'
'Maybe.' She looks at me doubtfully. 'So 'then he said, how did I feel about helping out a bit
while he was gone? So I said of course — and then he gave me this paintbrush, and three pots
of paint and said I should get the sitting room done if I worked fast.'
'What?'
'And then he came back at six o'clock — and said my brushwork was careless!' Her voice rises
woefully. 'It wasn't careless! I only smudged one bit, and that's because the stupid ladder
wasn't long enough.'
I stare at her.
'Katie, you're not telling me you actually painted the room.'
'Well… yes.' She looks at me with huge blue eyes. 'You know, to help out. But now I'm
starting to think… is he just using me?'
I'm almost speechless with disbelief.
'Katie, of course he's using you,' I manage at last. 'He wants a free painter-decorator! You
have to chuck him. Immediately. Now!'
Katie is silent for a few seconds, and I eye her a bit nervously. Her face is blank, but I can tell
lots of things are going on beneath the surface. It's a bit like when Jaws disappears underneath
the rippling water, and you just know that any minute-
'Oh God, you're right!' she suddenly bursts out. 'You're right. He's been using me! It's my own
fault. I should have realized when he asked me if I had any experience in plumbing or
roofing.'
'When did he ask you that?' I say incredulously.
'On our first date! I thought he was just, you know, making conversation.'
'Katie, it's not your fault.' I squeeze her arm. 'You weren't to know.'
'But what is it about me?' Katie stops still in the street. 'Why do I only attract complete shits?'
cracks about my career, and I'll be able to pay back Dad. Everyone will be really impressed -
and it'll be fantastic!
I wake up on Monday morning feeling totally bouncy and positive, and get dressed in my
usual work outfit of jeans and a nice top, this one from French Connection.
Well, not exactly French Connection. To be honest, I bought it at Oxfam. But the label says
French Connection. And while I'm still paying off Dad I don't have much choice about where
I shop. I mean, a new top from French Connection costs about fifty quid, whereas this one
cost ?7.50. And it's practically new!
As I skip up the tube steps, the sun's shining and I'm full of optimism. Imagine if I do get
promoted. Imagine telling everybody. Mum will say, 'How was your week?' and I'll say, 'Well,
actually…'
No, what I'll do is wait until I go home, and then just nonchalantly hand over my new
business card.
Or maybe I'll just drive up in my company car I think in excitement! I mean, I'm not sure any
of the other marketing executives have cars — but you never know, do you? They might
introduce it as a new thing. Or they might say, 'Emma, we've chosen you specially-'
'Emma!'
I look round to see Katie, my friend from Personnel, climbing the tube steps behind me,
panting slightly. Her curly red hair is all tousled, and she's holding one shoe in her hand.
'What on earth happened?' I say as she reaches the top.
'My stupid shoe,' says Katie disconsolately. 'I only had it mended the other day, and the heel's
just come off.' She flaps it at me. 'I paid six quid for that heel! God, this day is such a disaster.
The milkman forgot to bring me any milk, and I had a terrible weekend…'
'I thought you were spending it with Charlie,' I say in surprise. 'What happened?'
Charlie is Katie's latest man. They've been seeing each other for a few weeks and she was
supposed to be visiting his country cottage, which he's doing up at the weekends.
'It was awful! As soon as we arrived, he said he was going off to play golf.'
'Oh right.' I try to find a positive angle. 'Well, at least he's comfortable with you. He can just
act normally.'
'Maybe.' She looks at me doubtfully. 'So 'then he said, how did I feel about helping out a bit
while he was gone? So I said of course — and then he gave me this paintbrush, and three pots
of paint and said I should get the sitting room done if I worked fast.'
'What?'
'And then he came back at six o'clock — and said my brushwork was careless!' Her voice rises
woefully. 'It wasn't careless! I only smudged one bit, and that's because the stupid ladder
wasn't long enough.'
I stare at her.
'Katie, you're not telling me you actually painted the room.'
'Well… yes.' She looks at me with huge blue eyes. 'You know, to help out. But now I'm
starting to think… is he just using me?'
I'm almost speechless with disbelief.
'Katie, of course he's using you,' I manage at last. 'He wants a free painter-decorator! You
have to chuck him. Immediately. Now!'
Katie is silent for a few seconds, and I eye her a bit nervously. Her face is blank, but I can tell
lots of things are going on beneath the surface. It's a bit like when Jaws disappears underneath
the rippling water, and you just know that any minute-
'Oh God, you're right!' she suddenly bursts out. 'You're right. He's been using me! It's my own
fault. I should have realized when he asked me if I had any experience in plumbing or
roofing.'
'When did he ask you that?' I say incredulously.
'On our first date! I thought he was just, you know, making conversation.'
'Katie, it's not your fault.' I squeeze her arm. 'You weren't to know.'
'But what is it about me?' Katie stops still in the street. 'Why do I only attract complete shits?'